


me nem nesa

by jarofclay



Series: golden basketball boys [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Game of Thrones AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofclay/pseuds/jarofclay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may take time and an army of Dothraki to become stronger, but he manages. For a Dragonborn doesn't know the meaning of 'giving in'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	me nem nesa

**Author's Note:**

> The day Game of Thrones 3x01 came out, I was hit by this sudden wave of feels that made me open Word in a rush and write this thing on a whim. I still don't know where this came from. No spoilers from the second season, but if you haven’t seen or read the series, I don’t know how much you can get out of this jumble of casually put together words.
> 
> Betaed by sui (Airway Static on FFnet)

At first, his heart is weak. It bleeds and it hurts throughout all the years of loneliness and pent-up thirst for revenge marring its young life; it gets pulled and pushed and clawed by any hand greedy and nasty enough to try to reach for it, any enemy hungry for its oblivion and its pain – a king’s pain, a _Dragonborn_ ’s pain. All those hands find little resistance inside him, working their fingers around the only obstruction that was built inside him long ago: a frail wall of brotherly love that’s slowly withering away with the summer snapdragons that adorn the gardens of their factitious home, neglected in favor of dreams and promises which look a lot like dust in the mirage rising on the sandy horizon they see from their lacquered windows. And just when he thinks he’s finally found the resolution to raise his chin high and challenge his destiny, his brother, his _everything_ , it takes a single gaze from eyes as dark as the midnight sky in those Eastern lands to make his heart tremble again in fear and awe; one movement of those strong muscles that flex under the dark skin of a naked torso, one unreadable twitch of the corner of those drawn lips; a ruthless look from the most notorious Khal of all Dothraki, judging him as if he was mere flesh for the Khal to assess and eventually buy – no, not ‘as if’. He _is_ , he reminds himself: he’s a Dragonborn and nevertheless he’s been traded as a slave, because he needs them, his _brother_ needs them and when he lays his eyes on the Khal he can see, for a moment, what his brothers sees –the Seven Kingdoms _bowing_ to that barbaric horde and their leader, crying out the name of the _true_ King. He thinks, as he drinks in the halo of victory the man sports like a cloak around broad shoulders, that this may be worth it. But nonetheless, his knees wobble imperceptibly under the scrutiny of the warrior on the black horse, incarnation of the legend travelling around the Khalasars. There’s nothing he can do by now, except for taking a deep breath, bracing himself for the future, resisting under another demanding gaze that he feels running along his skin – and this one is familiar and mismatched and maybe, at this point in their lives, even more unmerciful than the barbarian’s.  
However, all the strength is lost on him as his heart threatens to shatter when they’re left alone in the Khal’s tent – he and a man who doesn’t know how to say thank you, who killed one of his own men that day without batting an eye, who knows nothing except for violence and blood and victory. As the Khal rudely turns him on his stomach and takes him without a word – because it would be useless, there are no words that could sugarcoat the reality of it all and he wouldn’t understand any of them anyway – and he feels an unwanted pleasure building up inside him, ripping his body apart and making him want to curl up and vomit his soul out, he wonders what he did to be there, in a land at the far end of the world, with a brother that sold him to an army of barbarians in order to go back home triumphant and proud. He asks himself what he wants more, his home or his throne, and if it’s even possible to have one without the other. He wonders, while the Khal thrusts faster and harder into him and by his hips harshly drags him back against the groin with those large hands that seem unable to show kindness. And as he lies with gritted teeth on his hands and knees on the bed made of horse skin rugs and woolen cushions, it’s only the sight of three dragon eggs placed on the ground before him that keeps him from screaming.

 

 

But as the moon traces its path across the endless starry sky over and over again, Tetsuya’s heart gets stronger. It gets toughened by steel and fire and blood and now, when unwanted hands try to clench it, they get bitten, they get bloody and have to draw back in shame, thinking twice about wandering again into forbidden territory. Tetsuya now has aims, has principles that carve themselves deeper into his soul every day as he stands steadier on his two feet. His fair skin doesn’t burn anymore from the friction of leather reins and saddle; his hand is firm as it is guided by Daiki’s larger one in a swift, experimental movement of the arakh during their fighting lessons and he smiles back at Daiki when the latter shows his approval. When Daiki comes to their shared tent, finding him longingly contemplating his dragon eggs and distractedly fiddling with the brazier’s flames, he sits behind him as he twines his fingers with Tetsuya’s and slowly brings them away from the fire, because he doesn’t understand. But then he hugs Tetsuya’s chest with surprising kindness and, in that moment, Tetsuya feels content. He feels safe.  
Words aren’t needed once again, not because Tetsuya wouldn’t understand, but because they’ve always communicated best with their eyes and bodies. It isn’t an unwelcome touch anymore, that of those hands that slide gently over his skin, tracing patterns known only to them, caressing every part of him with love and lust before he tightens his grip on Tetsuya’s hips and raises him, pulling his back closer. When Daiki enters him, nipping at his neck and licking the side of his jaw, Tetsuya lets out a low moan of pleasure, feeling love and satisfaction growing inside him as he lets his nape fall against Daiki’s shoulder, reaches back and tangles his fingers in Daiki’s dark hair – and pretends that this is everything he’s ever wanted.  
Finally, the day comes when he looks at his sun and stars with fiery eyes ablaze as they order him to eat the raw heart of a horse and in the middle of Vaes Dothrak, in a large tent crowded with expectant stares, he does just that – he brings the heart to his mouth and feeds on it; again and again he rips strands of flesh off with his teeth and gulps everything down, with only his will to stop him from throwing up. All the while he watches Daiki smirk at him from afar, propelling him to go on, his eyes so alive and shining with certainty in the flames of the torches that Tetsuya can’t even doubt himself anymore – he can do this, he _will_ do this. And when he does, fighting with every fiber not to shake in disgust, Daiki’s dark hands appear on him and latch onto his sides, thrusting Tetsuya up high in the air, above himself and above all else, like a treasure for everyone to admire – on his bare stomach, Daiki whispers, “ _Yer chomoe anna_ ”; and it’s with the sound of those words in his ears that Tetsuya looks around wide-eyed and doesn’t see a king of savages; he doesn’t see dreadful strangers, untrusting glares and disapproving faces. He only sees his light and his people. Blood of his blood.

 

 

When one day he asks his bloodriders why Daiki didn’t choose a woman as his partner, if the Khalasar didn’t need a Khaleesi to rule by his side, he finds himself knowing the answer before they give it to him. “A Khal don’t need a Khaleesi, as a Khaleesi don’t need a Khal. A Khal can do what he want as long as he has power and control. And what is strong, he wants, or destroy. It is known.” So he watches their Khal tearing open the body of a man who dared insult Tetsuya’s unwavering choice to spare their prisoners and challenge Daiki’s role. When it’s over, Daiki shows Tetsuya and the crowd the guy’s head as proof of his unbeatable superiority and Tetsuya smiles mirthlessly in the realization that _Daiki_ is the source of his strength; that when he thinks he needs Daiki to go back home, he’s not thinking only of his army of powerful warriors as Seijuuro always does; he’s thinking of his eyes and his heart and his soul.  
“ _You made me who I am now. I am strong because of you,_ ” Tetsuya indeed tells him in Dothraki when they are alone. He kisses Daiki’s lips, lustful and reverent and, lying underneath him, Daiki looks up at him and smirks in amusement at his thoughtfulness. “ _If that was true, I would have never taken you with me that day_ ,” he replies, voice low and husky reverberating through Tetsuya’s body and causing a lingering warmth to last under his skin. But Daiki is serious when his eyes drop closed in a soft sigh and he adds in a murmur, “ _You looked like ice, but you were made of fire from the very start._ ”  
That night, it’s Tetsuya who takes him for the first time. Without intending to, he ends up treating it like a sacred experience, because watching Daiki as he fists the sheets under them and groans Tetsuya’s name like a mantra until he comes and can’t speak anymore fills Tetsuya with a sense of completeness, with the understanding that he managed to bend someone whom he thought unbendable – that he’s made a _breach_ in a wall that was thought to be unshakeable. But when the feeling wears off, a hole opens in Tetsuya’s heart and he wakes up in the middle of the night, tight in Daiki’s embrace and with Daiki’s even breath ghosting over the top of his hair. He doesn’t know what awoke him until he blinks the sleepiness away and sees the embers of the brazier beside his bed glowing red in the dark of the tent. He also sees the three dragon eggs lying peacefully on it and, before even realizing what he’s doing, Tetsuya has followed an unspoken need, an arm already outstretched to touch the scaled texture of the eggs – and he feels no pain, no scorching hotness burning his fingers where they brush against the embers. His skin doesn’t peel off as it should, his hand doesn’t shrink away on instinct – it draws closer, instead, until the whole palm rests against the surface of the biggest egg. And what he feels then, pulsing warm against his skin, is life and hope and power and the call of victory. 

**Author's Note:**

> also as, the fic in which Akashi is there for a second and there he isn't anymore and I sincerely don't know where he went.  
> bUT IN THIS UNIVERSE AOMINE DOES NOT DIE EVEN THOUGH HE’S THE KHAL OKAY I DON'T CARE ABOUT CANON DEATH RATES
> 
> And I hate the fact that in everything I write Kuroko isn’t really a badass, physically speaking. But. At least in this one YOU KNOW he will be. I mean, DRAGONS, RIGHT?


End file.
